


Hormonal Adjustments By Proxy

by Barb G (troutkitty), devo



Series: The Proxy series [3]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-11-01
Updated: 1999-11-01
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:14:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/264933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G, https://archiveofourown.org/users/devo/pseuds/devo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jonathan and Pierre's relationship continues. MacLeod gets in touch with Methosian things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hormonal Adjustments By Proxy

Jonathan saw the sun glinting off the parked cars as he turned the last bend in the park path, and he broke into a sprint. His body ached all over, but every breath he took was clear and unhindered by the asthma that had plagued him as a child. He had been able to work out before he died the first time, but to be able to run and not mind the strain or worry about his next breath was bliss.

If only he could get Pierre to come with him.

His lover didn't appreciate the pleasure of running a body to the ground. Jonathan pushed himself for the last hundred yards, but then slowed to a walk to cool himself off. A buzz came, no different than the buzz Pierre would give off, but it was too early and Pierre's blue jag was nowhere in the parking lot. Jonathan glanced around, but the early business people had already cleared the park, and the late morning crowd hadn't arrived yet.

Jonathan was alone except for the tall man getting out of his T-bird. He pulled out a sword. Jonathan's body flushed with sweat and the adrenaline kicked in again, but his body was too tired to run from someone fresh.

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the man announced, but the sword was kept casually by his leg. It wasn't exactly pointing at Jonathan, but then wasn't exactly not, either.

"Jonathan, just...Jonathan," Jonathan said, glancing down to the sword. He kept his hands by his side with his palms open. His heart thudded in the back of his throat, but he kept his breathing calm. Just like in the schoolyard, he made himself completely non-threatening.

"Just Jonathan. Are you new around here?" the man asked.

Jonathan shrugged. "Yeah, kind of," he said. He looked away from the sword and into the man's brown eyes. He looked dangerous; obviously so, the Katana with the ivory hilt was held easily in one hand. His short hair was neatly trimmed, and in any other circumstances, Jonathan would have been very interested in the body in the running clothes, but the presence of a sword made his testicles crawl up to his throat. He swallowed, knowing intellectually that that wasn't the least safe part on his body, but they just weren't listening to logic. "Are you...uh...going to use that?" he asked.

The man--MacLeod--glanced down to his sword as if realizing for the first time it was in his hand, just as his head snapped up again. A second buzz followed. Jonathan's heart began beating again as he saw Pierre's car screech to a stop in front of them.

& & &

For a moment, it just looked like Jonathan was talking to the other immortal, until Pierre saw the naked blade. Jonathan stood calmly in front of it. Pierre got out of the car, and the blade went from hanging loose to at him. "Jonathan, come here," Pierre said. Jonathan glanced between him and the stranger, and then took a step towards him. "If you want to fight, fight me," Pierre said.

"Is that a challenge?" the stranger asked. His voice was accented. Pierre shook his head, knowing he had heard it before.

"Do you want it to be?" Pierre asked.

The man shook his head. "Not particularly."

"I'm glad to hear it," Pierre said, and the voice came back to him. On the phone, at Methos' apartment. This was 'the him'. The man turned around to put his sword away, and Pierre glance to make sure Jonathan was all right. The boy looked a little shaken but he tried to smile. "How's Adam?" Pierre asked.

The man whipped the sword around. "Who's asking?" he asked, voice tight.

"A friend of his," Pierre ignored the blade. "You do know Adam, don't you?"

The man's eyes narrowed considerably. "I don't know you."

"We've talked together on the phone. Briefly. This exact conversation, if I recall. Pierre."

No last name. The man noticed that, but his guard lowered, slightly.

"Duncan MacLeod," the man said.

"Of the Clan MacLeod," Jonathan piped in from where he was standing by the passenger side of the car. "We've been introduced."

MacLeod turned around to put his sword away. Pierre took the time to turn to Jonathan. "Where is your sword?" he demanded.

"At home," Jonathan said.

"Are you asking to be shortened?" Pierre growled. "You carry your sword with you!"

"Where am I supposed to carry it?" Jonathan demanded. "It's a thousand degrees out here and it's a long run."

"Great defense, Jonathan. Whining. Why didn't I think of that."

"I was not whining!"

"Were you expecting the bad guy to help you hail a cab to get back to the apartment to get your sword?"

"I can't talk to you like this," Jonathan snapped. He threw himself against the passenger door and crossed his arms over his chest.

"New student?" MacLeod asked. His voice sounded...odd. Distant.

"Yes," Pierre said.

"No," Jonathan called from the car.

"It's complicated," Pierre said. "Tell Adam to bring you over for coffee tonight."

MacLeod nodded, still amused.

They fought all the way to the film festival, and then sat in angry silence during the movie. They started up again in the car. "I'll buy you a car tomorrow," Pierre said once back in the apartment.

"I don't want you to buy me a car."

"Jonathan--"

"Pierre don't. I'm not asking for you to...mother me. You're my lover, you're not my father!"

"I'm your teacher," Pierre growled.

The boy glared at him, "I can take care of myself," he said, and stomped into the spare room, slamming the door behind him.

Pierre was going to go after him, but the buzzs hit him. "Jonathan, get out here," Pierre snapped.

"Bite me," Jonathan shouted in English through the door.

Pierre answered the door alone. MacLeod and Methos stood in the hall. "Come in. Make yourself at home. Ignore the brat having a temper-tantrum," Pierre said, raising his voice on the last part.

"Fuck you!"

MacLeod winced. "Trouble in paradise so soon?"

"Jonathan's discovering himself. He's discovering what an asshole he really is," Pierre growled. "Beer?"

"Sure," Methos said.

"Coffee?" MacLeod asked.

Pierre nodded, and went into the kitchen. The two of them sat on the sofa, just close enough to be touching thighs. Pierre started the coffee and brought Methos back a bottle. The spare bedroom door flew open, and Jonathan walked down the hall with his head up to the kitchen. He brought a beer bottle back to the living room with MacLeod's coffee. "Thanks for not..." Jonathan swallowed. "You know."

MacLeod shook his head, taking the coffee from him. "Don't mention it."

Jonathan sat down on the coffee table, scrupulously ignoring Pierre.

"You don't get it, do you?" Pierre said, trying again. He kept his voice calm and level. "Without a sword you could have been taken without a struggle. Lop. And that's the end of you," Pierre said, and demonstrated with an appropriate hand gesture.

"The chances of meeting another immortal--" MacLeod began.

"You met him, and he met you. It's a good thing both of you are such charming fellows or one of you would be dead right now."

"You're getting snitty again," Jonathan said, quietly.

Pierre leaned against the table and cupped the boy's chin. "This means much more to me attached to the rest of your body than rolling down an alley somewhere."

"I understand that," Jonathan said. "But I'm not hiding behind you for the rest of my life."

"If the boy wants to run, he can run with me," MacLeod said. He went back to staring at his coffee.

"Great, from one babysitter to the next," Jonathan said. He got up and went back into his room. Pierre ignored him. Five minutes later he came out wearing tight black jeans and a T-shirt. Pierre watched him, silently, and winced as the boy slammed the door shut.

"It's not just the running, it's everything."

Methos nodded. Mac stayed silent.

Pierre waited up. When he felt the buzz, at a quarter to four, he unlocked the door. "Forget your keys?" he asked.

Jonathan didn't look up. "Are you going to let me in?"

"Yes," Pierre said.

Jonathan walked past him, and Pierre could smell the scent of sex on him. He leaned against the doorframe. "Enjoy him?" Pierre asked.

"How do you know it was just one?"

Pierre left him alone.

Jonathan joined him in bed a moment later. "So, what's it going to be?"

Jonathan asked. "Here or in the spare room?"

"What?"

"Where do you want me to sleep?"

Pierre pulled the blankets back behind him. Jonathan curled up. "Hot irons? Bamboo shoots? Your fist in me again?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Aren't you going to punish me?"

"No, Jonathan, I'm not."

"Don't you want to punish me?" Jonathan asked.

"Jonathan, I'm tired and I'd like to go to sleep."

Jonathan lay back down for less than a minute. "Why don't you want to punish me?" Jonathan asked.

"I don't punish you, Jonathan. You've missed the point entirely."

Jonathan sat up. His bare back with his mass of scars in the half light of the morning. "So that's it, then."

"What do you mean, that's it."

"You don't love me."

"Don't give me that shit, Jonathan. I do love you."

"You said you would never deny me anything."

Pierre nodded. The boy couldn't see it, but he moved up, running his hands down Jonathan's shoulders, to his arms, and gripped the boy's wrists. "Tell me what you want, Jonathan," he said.

Jonathan shuddered under his hands. "What ever pleases you," he said, body tensing.

"Jonathan, you please me," he said. "You always have."

"Stop, you're giving me a sugar rush. Just fuck me already."

"Did you enjoy it?" Pierre asked.

Jonathan shook his head. "He was too quick. It was up against the bathroom stall and over."

"You should have demanded a rematch."

Jonathan made a face. "I didn't want him."

Pierre let his wrists go. He caressed the back of the boy's neck, and then dragged his nail across the boy's back. Jonathan hissed, arching his back.

"What do you want me to say, Pierre? If I catch you looking at another man I'll kill you?" he whispered, biting down on the boy's shoulder.

"Yes," Jonathan hissed. He reached into the bedside table and pulled out the handcuffs. "Please..."

Pierre locked him in place, securely, and moved back. Jonathan's body writhed against the sheets, and Pierre reached down and pressed his hand against the small of the boy's back, pressing him down into the mattress. "How much of a quickie was it?" he asked.

"What?" Jonathan asked.

"Did you come?"

"Pierre--" Jonathan tried, but Pierre pushed him down harder. "Did you come, Jonathan? You're mine, I have every right to know."

"No," Jonathan managed, and Pierre slacked off, slightly. Jonathan shifted his hips, slightly, testing Pierre. Pierre brought his hand down hard on the boy's cheek and then gently rubbed away the sting.

"Is that what you want?" Pierre asked, continuing stroking down the soft skin. His handprint stood up stark against the white skin for less than a minute before fading away. Jonathan didn't say anything, but he looked up with desperate eyes.

Pierre leaned forward to kiss the boy, but kept the kiss soft and teasing. The boy parted his lips, soundlessly begging for something deeper, but Pierre bit him on the lip lightly and pulled away. "No," he said. "Don't look at me."

"Pierre!" Jonathan said, twisting against him. "Please, don't--"

Pierre slapped him again. "I told you to look away."

Jonathan opened his mouth to protest again, but winced as Pierre smacked him again in the same spot. He squirmed again as Pierre pushed him down into the mattress, and he turned his head to face the other direction.

"Good boy," Pierre whispered. "It is common decency to wash yourself before coming back home," he growled. "I don't like the stink of another man on you."

Jonathan nodded, already controlling his breathing. His hips moved against the mattress again. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Is it enough to be sorry?" Pierre asked.

Jonathan shook his head, moving back against Pierre's hand. "Please."

"I didn't think so." Pierre began, using the flat of his hand. Jonathan struggled with not crying out for the first half a dozen blows, but as his skin turned pink and then red, it became too difficult for him. The first muffled cry escaped him, and Pierre stopped for a moment, rubbing the skin. "More?" he asked, kissing the boy's shoulder.

Jonathan nodded, minutely bobbing his head. "Are you sure?" he whispered.

"Please," Jonathan whispered, again.

Pierre kissed him again before starting over again. Jonathan struggled, not to get away from them, but to accept them. His muffled cries became choking, and then he stopped trying to hold them back. Pierre let him cry for a few moments before hugging the boy to his body. Jonathan arched his back, "Please," the boy whispered.

Pierre stroked his cheek, kissed his brow, and then reached into the bedside table for the lube. His cock was only half awake; spanking had never been a kink of his, but just working the oil helped. He poured oil over the boy's cleft, working it into the still deep red skin for a moment before swirling the warmed lavender oil over his opening. A single finger worked easily inside the boy, and he held the too-warm cheeks apart with his hands as he slowly mounted the boy.

Jonathan's face was flushed, his curls wild, and the tears had run down his face leaving their drying tracks, but he never lost his beauty. Pierre fucked him slowly, feeling the deep heat of the boy against him. "Mine," he asserted.

"Yours," Jonathan whispered, accepting him further. "Always, yours," he said.

Pierre grabbed the boy's hips, readjusting the boy's body easily. He was still chained to the headboard, but Pierre gripped his hips. "Go ahead."

"Pierre, please--" Jonathan started, and then yelped as Pierre brought his hand down hard on the still healing muscles.

"Did you hear me?"

Jonathan hated being forced to take an active part when he was lost in his role, but Pierre slapped him again and the boy began moving against him. It wasn't satisfying for either one them until Jonathan started trusting Pierre enough not to let him go too far. Pierre kept his hands on the boy's hips and pulled him back. Jonathan figured out how to angle himself correctly so that Pierre caught his prostate on each thrust, and the internal contractions as the boy shuddered were too much. Jonathan slammed against him particularly hard, and Pierre tightened his grip on the boy, not letting him pull away.

Jonathan shouted in victory, putting his head down, and Pierre started to screw him royally. The look of the boy's vulnerable neck exposed to him was almost too much for him. Jonathan matched his thrusts hard enough to start creaking the bed and he collapsed over the boy. He came, hard, feeling the boy shuddering under him. It was a long minute before he could roll off and unlock the boy. Pierre's entire body still shivered, like the boy was rejecting the pleasure. "The slave sleeps on the wet spot," Pierre announced. He grabbed some wet-ones and cleaned the boy off before taking care of himself.

"Since when?" Jonathan asked.

"Since now. Goodnight."

Jonathan looked up at him. "Thank you," he whispered.

Pierre smiled and kissed the boy. Jonathan parted his lips, cautiously, waiting for the rejection, but Pierre matched the kiss. Jonathan broke away first though and excused himself. When he got back from the bathroom, Pierre was already mostly asleep. Jonathan curled up beside him and used his arm as a pillow.

Jonathan woke him up by getting out of the bed. A buzz went off in Pierre's head, and he grabbed his jeans and his sword on the way out the door. He glanced through the peek hole carefully, but it was only MacLeod. Pierre unchained the door before opening it.

"Good morning," MacLeod said.

"Is it?" Pierre asked. He rubbed his face as MacLeod stepped past him.

"Gorgeous view you have."

"Thanks. Coffee?"

"No, thanks. It's too early. Is the boy ready?"

"I don't know. Boy, are you ready?" Pierre called.

Jonathan jumped into the hall trying to pull his runners on. He dropped down to one knee, to tie the last one, and bounced up again. He kissed Pierre quickly on the cheek, but Pierre grabbed Jonathan's wrist and hauled the boy back to him. "Do you call that a kiss?"

Jonathan grinned at him, "Oops. My bad," he said, and then wrapped his arms around Pierre's neck. Jonathan kissed him, pressing his tongue into Pierre's mouth while aligning their groins. Jonathan did something with his knees, and suddenly Pierre was up against the wall. "Better?" Jonathan asked, curious as broke away from the kiss.

"Much," Pierre managed. "Have fun."

"Thanks," Jonathan chirped. He trotted along side Mac, looking like a puppy next to a greyhound. Pierre watched them go. Jonathan had switched to English and began babbling just as fluently has he could in French. The elevator had waited for him, and as MacLeod turned around, his face looked amused, but confused at the cheerful stranger who had replaced the sullen boy he had met the day before.

MacLeod glanced at the boy on the ride back. Jonathan practically hummed with energy. He tossed his water bottle in the air carelessly, and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet as the elevator descended.

 

Mac dropped the boy off and went home to shower. Methos met him at the door, slouching against the doorframe. He wordlessly handed MacLeod a cold beer, and dropped down to his knees as MacLeod took it.

Mac shut the door behind him, at least. Methos yanked down the man's sweats, and freed the cock from them. "I stink. I haven't showered yet," MacLeod said.

"Best time," Methos murmured. Mac leaned back against the door and concentrated on enjoying the sensations. Methos looked up at him, smiling around his cock. His hazel eyes shone, and his hands moved to his hips, holding him against the wall. MacLeod sipped the microbrewed beer, feeling the bubbles burn down his throat. Methos thrust his finger into MacLeod's ass; it was an interesting sensation, the warmth spreading from his stomach, Methos doing his best to swallow him from the cock up, and the fingers questing inside his ass. They found his prostate, and MacLeod almost melted. He groaned, slamming his fist against the wall. "Methos," he managed.

"Yes?" Methos asked, moving his free hand to start jerking Mac's cock off so he could concentrate on the head. "Did you want something?"

"Tease."

"This surprises you," Methos wormed his tongue into him.

MacLeod hissed again, trying to find a grip on the man's head. There was absolutely no purchase. Methos' grin deepened, and the fingers inside him twitched, causing him discomfort. It was so deliberate, Methos must have known exactly how it would feel. MacLeod took two swallows of beer.

"Remind me to kill you after you finish," MacLeod growled.

"Oh, Mac, you say the sweetest things," Methos said, but his fingers continued worked inside him. MacLeod spread his legs as best as he could with his sweats only lowered to his thighs. Methos found the perfect spot, and Mac hissed, sitting back down into it, trying to get it exactly on the same spot...Methos met his eyes again. Methos wouldn't let him look away, and suddenly MacLeod lost himself. He was coming hard down Methos throat, and Methos swallowed it.

Methos stood up.

"Go have a shower, you stink," Methos said, and wiped his mouth. "We're meeting Pierre and Jonathan for dinner."

MacLeod looked at him for a moment too long. "What now?" Methos asked, but his voice was still amused.

"Does Pierre...abuse him?"

Methos laughed. "Jonathan?"

"Does he?"

"Yeah. But the boy begs for it. I'm willing to bet Pierre would be willing to skip the dramatics, but he does what Jonathan wants."

"They're sleeping together."

"So? We're sleeping together. I would think the gender thing has stopped being a problem."

"Methos, that has nothing to do with it. He's Jonathan's teacher and he's sleeping with him. That's taking advantage."

Methos exhaled sharply through his nose. "You wouldn't recognize the boy if you had met him a month ago. The difference Pierre has done for him is unbelievable. You should thank him."

"Thank him? For molesting--"

"Molesting? How old do you think Jonathan is? Honestly, MacLeod, you are such a prude for a man who's just been blown against a doorframe."

MacLeod grabbed Methos' arm. "Where did you meet the boy?" he demanded.

Methos removed the hand with the tips of his fingers. "Back off," he said, dangerously.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Where did you meet the boy?"

"That's none of your damn business."

"And Pierre? Is he none of my damn business either?"

"As a matter of fact, yes, he is."

"Methos--"

"What, MacLeod?"

All the warmth had left Methos' voice. Mac realized he was treading a very dangerous path. He cleared his throat. "Why won't you tell me?" he asked.

Methos' face softened for less than a heartbeat before it hardened again.

"Because I can't let you judge me again for something you don't understand."

"He was your slave," MacLeod guessed. The look of pain confirmed it, and Methos started edging for the door. "Like Cassandra."

"No, not like Cassandra. Do you see him trying to sever my body parts? Yes, he was my slave. Yes, I owned him. But it's not what you think."

"And you aren't going to tell me."

"It's not my story to tell, MacLeod. Shower. We'll be late."

MacLeod had a quick shower and dressed again. Methos drove in his SUV, and Mac thrummed his thumbs against his thighs as Methos navigated the rush-hour traffic.

"I'm sorry," MacLeod finally said.

"What's that?" Methos said, glancing at him as best he could.

"I jumped to conclusions."

"No shit, Sherlock."

"I'll make it up to you," MacLeod said, applying the charm. Methos glance at him sideways, unable to stay mad at him, apparently.

"Really? How are you going to do that? My feelings were very, very hurt, by the way," Methos said with a glint in his eyes.

"I'll return the favour."

Methos sat up straighter as he maneuvered the car into a parking spot.

That's how it began. Methos had wanted bookcases in his apartment, and he had innocently asked Mac for a favour. MacLeod took the shelf from Methos, standing behind him one hand on either side of Methos', and then Methos had...leaned back into him.

It wasn't unprecedented. Mac had kissed him outside of Joe's bar when this all had fallen into place, but they had spent he time between dancing around each other. And then Richie had...died. Methos disappeared after that, and only now were they getting back together. That's all it had been, Mac doing Methos a favour, and suddenly they had been on their hands and knees, and Mac was over and inside his best friend.

Methos glanced at him sideways again. "Here?" he asked.

"Tonight," MacLeod said, still flushed at the memory. Even Methos' ivory skin was slightly pink.

"Oh, good."

Pierre's hand was on the boy's inner thigh as they approached the table in the restaurant. MacLeod knew that as he approached the table. Jonathan was doing his best not to show it, but Pierre faked disinterest in the boy's plight extremely well. The meal was excellent, but MacLeod hardly tasted it. Instead he spent the night studying the boy. There was a connection between the two of them, going far deeper than the almost casualness of Methos' affection. They would occasionally lean into each other's space and whisper something Mac couldn't hear, and the other would smile with such warmth until they remembered they weren't alone.

Jonathan obviously realized Mac was studying him half way through the evening, and the boy started to meet his curious stares with shy smiles. They became more bold as more wine passed through the table. Pierre noticed and glanced at the boy, scowling for a second, but Jonathan shook his head, eyes innocent. The boy shuddered, though, and nodded.

Pierre went back to eating his meal, one handed.

It took him five minutes before Jonathan met Mac's eyes again. The boy's curls were loose today, setting off his wide golden brown eyes and full lips. He was beautiful, in a non-aggressive kind of way. Mac couldn't imagine the boy knowing which end of the sword to hold.

Pierre shifted in his seat, glancing across the table to Methos, who nodded. Methos moved to get up, but not before Pierre leaned back to the boy and whispered, "Behave," just loud enough for Mac to hear. The boy flushed, but grinned back at him. Pierre grabbed his chin and kissed the boy, but then got up and followed Methos away.

MacLeod waited for them to be out of earshot before speaking. "I'm still trying to convince myself you don't need rescuing."

Jonathan barely controlled the laughter. It was somewhat insulting that the boy never tried speaking French to him. "Rescuing? Do I look like a damsel in distress?" The boy glanced down. "Well, in this outfit, at least."

"Pierre--"

Jonathan licked his lips, and Mac suddenly found his own suddenly going dry. He wasn't attracted to the boy. There was no way, but his cock, which had been happily sated with Methos' blowjob, woke up in his slacks. Jonathan noticed it, of course, and the innocent shine in his eyes took on a slightly predatory glint to them. He glanced around, though, sensing Pierre in the room before the warning hit them.

Mac turned. His stomach tightened at the two of them. Pierre was casually in Methos' space without either of them noticing it. They had been lovers, then. There was honest affection between them, but it didn't seem...active. Was that the term? He couldn't help the possessive clench to his fists. Here he was, making eyes at a boy all night, and then tensing when Methos followed another man a foot too closely.

Pierre sat down to his salad, using his knife for the first time. Jonathan sat still for a couple heartbeats, and then squirmed in his seat. Pierre and Methos were still talking to each other, and MacLeod listened to the innocent conversation on football with half an ear as he watched Jonathan surreptitiously pick up Pierre's napkin and drop it onto the floor.

"You dropped something," Jonathan said.

Pierre glanced down, picked it up, and went back to his conversation, with his wrist firmly on the edge of the table. "You're awfully quiet," Methos whispered to him.

"Just thinking," MacLeod whispered back.

Methos glanced across the table to the boy. "Thinking, right," he drawled slowly. "He is cute, isn't he?"

"Methos!"

"It's an innocent question, leading nowhere. He's cute, isn't he?"

Jonathan tugged the napkin from Pierre's hand and threw it on the floor. "I said, you dropped something," the boy repeated, firmly.

Pierre laughed, and reached down to pick the napkin up again. His hand came back up again, and the boy groaned. Pierre laughed again, but his hand dropped out of sight. Jonathan's head slumped forward for a second, and he closed his eyes. His lips parted, and the moisture of his inner lip reflected the candlelight.

His head jerked up, remembering where they were, and he blushed before settling back in his chair as if nothing had happened.

"Cute, yes," MacLeod finally agreed.

Pierre glanced over to him, and then leaned into Jonathan's space. Mac couldn't hear, but the boy's eyes widened and he smiled. He whispered something back, and Pierre nodded. Jonathan lost interest in his salad, and glanced up, back to being shy, at MacLeod.

"Do you want him?" Methos asked.

"What?" MacLeod forgot to lower his voice.

"Simple question. Do you want him?" Methos asked, and poured the last bit of wine into Mac's glass. "Drink up, we're leaving."

"I thought you said it wasn't leading anywhere," MacLeod protested.

"It doesn't have to lead anywhere. If you don't want him say something and I'll take you home and you can return the favour. If you want him, though, say something. He'll be willing, I assure you."

MacLeod, despite himself, glanced across the table. The boy sensed the rejection, but Pierre leaned back into his space and whispered something that changed the disconcerted look on Jonathan's face. Jonathan whispered something else, but it was obviously too soft for Pierre to hear. The man moved in closer, and Jonathan kissed his ear. Pierre laughed, and the boy almost purred as the muscles in Pierre's shoulder worked.

MacLeod glanced over to Pierre. "Coffee?" he asked.

"My place or yours?" Pierre asked.

"Mine."

 

Methos hadn't been drinking. MacLeod glanced up to the review mirror and saw the two of them sitting next to each other. Pierre held Jonathan's hands on his knee firmly, and looked like he was ignoring the boy's desperate attempts to free himself. The drive home had never been longer. MacLeod shifted uncomfortably in his seat and tried to adjust the erection without being noticed.

No such luck. Methos smiled at him, glanced down into his lap and shook his head. There was very little traffic on the way home, and Mac took the time to adjust his jacket as he got out of the car.

Jonathan stared at the barge. "You live here?" he said, and stepped onto the gangplank.

The boy was floored by the interior. Pierre took a beer from Methos and moved to the couch while Mac watched Jonathan explore the living area. Pierre cleared his throat softly, and instantly he broke away from studying one of the statues to go sit at Jonathan's feet. Pierre gave him his beer bottle and fussed with his curls as the boy drank.

Methos joined Pierre on the couch, which left MacLeod standing awkwardly by the fireplace. Jonathan gave the bottle back, and turned around so that he was looking at Pierre. They didn't say anything, which was actually somewhat alarming. Pierre finally stroked the boy's cheek and smiled. "Ready?" he asked, but he spoke to Methos.

Methos glanced up to Mac. "MacLeod?" he asked.

MacLeod nodded, throat rapidly becoming as dry as his mouth. Pierre tugged on the boy's shirt, and he slowly unbuttoned it while Jonathan stole the bottle back. He finished the beer, wiping his mouth, and then sat still for Pierre to finish unbuttoning it. Pierre pulled it off his shoulders gently, and then ran a hand down the boy's throat, chest and belly before cupping the straining denim. "Play nicely," he whispered.

Jonathan nodded, eyes shining.

"And not until I say. Remember that."

Jonathan nodded again. MacLeod took a hesitant step into the main area. Jonathan broke away from Pierre and crawled half way across the carpet to where MacLeod stood. The boy moved like a housecat, graceful and still somehow disdainful in his submission. He knelt spreading his knees so that the new blue jeans molded to his upper thighs. He wasn't like Methos, Methos with his wry strength. Jonathan had worked hard on his body. It was sculptured, perfect. Pierre was a very lucky man.

Jonathan offered his wrists to him. MacLeod took a step back, hesitant. "Take them," Methos whispered from the couch. MacLeod did. He took them both in one hand. If the boy struggled to break free he would have, but he doubted Jonathan would. "Go on," Methos prompted.

MacLeod pulled the boy's arms up. Jonathan stretched for him, moaning softly as MacLeod pulled slightly too far. The boy closed his eyes, tilting his head back to expose his throat. His eyelashes were long and had a slight curl to them. Jonathan had freckles against his pale skin. They weren't noticeable unless he was in direct light, but they crossed over his cheekbones and up to the bridge of his nose.

MacLeod found himself pulling on the arms slightly harder, and Jonathan's breathing caught. "Don't you want to touch him?" Methos asked.

Suddenly MacLeod wanted nothing else. The boy's nipples were drawn and tight on his chest, but MacLeod put his free hand over the boy's throat, to feel the frantic pulse himself. Jonathan whimpered, pressing as hard as he could again the hand, but MacLeod moved his hands down. The boy's chest was almost hairless, and Jonathan winced as MacLeod's calluses scraped over his nipples.

"Play with them, MacLeod. Tease them...pinch them. Feel him move under you."

MacLeod had never deliberately hurt his partner during sex before, but as he rubbed the little nub between his fingers, he almost couldn't help himself from twisting them just a little bit. Jonathan gasped, but didn't fight to get away. "I need two hands free," he said, not looking at either one of them on the couch.

Pierre moved to him, taking his lover's wrists from him. He pulled Jonathan to his feet, holding his arms up. Pierre moved up behind him, nudging the boy's legs apart. "You are so beautiful...love you..." MacLeod heard the man whisper, but it was too soft to catch the flow of words. Jonathan moaned again, trusting Pierre with his weight.

MacLeod moved back up in front of the boy. He ran his hands down the chest, and the boy shuddered. Methos stood up off the couch as well, moving slightly behind MacLeod. "Try your nails, the next time. Gently. Give him the promise of pain, MacLeod, not the hurt."

Mac did so, raking his nails down from Jonathan's throat to his jeans. The boy whimpered, throwing himself back onto Pierre. Pierre hushed him, kissing the now sweaty neck. "Take it, Jonathan, take it and ride it," Pierre whispered.

Jonathan thrashed once, shuddering as Pierre's tongue worked down the tense muscles. His breathing returned to normal. "Very good," Pierre whispered, "Very, very good."

Methos stroked Mac over his jeans. The pleasure shot through MacLeod, and he had to hold still until his lungs started working again. "Again, MacLeod, do it again."

The red marks from the last time had already faded. This time MacLeod put slightly more weight behind it, and the boy pressed back against his fingers as they raked down his flesh. Without being told to, he went back to torment the boy's nipples. They hardened even more in his mouth, and the gasping noises Jonathan made were a definitely making him harder. As long as his hands were on the boy, Methos rubbed the front of his jeans. When he stopped or when he pulled away, the hand stopped.

He didn't know how Jonathan was taking it. There was a slight smile on his face, almost Zen-like in the tranquility. He still whimpered and shuddered at each touch or pinch, but he thrust back into it.

Methos must have felt Mac's body starting to shudder. MacLeod broke from the boy as Methos dropped down to his knees. MacLeod could hardly wait for Methos to even open his mouth. He was coming, hard enough to make the roots of his hair hurt and his body shake. Methos led him back to the sofa, as complacent as a child was. Walking almost took too much energy. "Look," Methos whispered.

MacLeod looked up. Pierre had sat down on the coffee table and pulled the boy to him. They kissed, passionate enough to make Mac's jaw ache just by looking at it. Both of their eyes were closed, it was like the audience no longer mattered. Pierre managed his jeans off, and took a moment to pull Jonathan away long enough to get his down, too. Pierre held out his hand, for a second, not breaking from the kiss, and Methos put the tube of lubrication into it. Pierre squirted more than he would probably need, and worked it over the boy's cock.

Jonathan's eyes opened at the touch of Pierre's hand, and he trembled hesitantly as Pierre lay back and spread his legs. Jonathan tried to glance down to see what he was doing, but Pierre caught him in another kiss and guided the boy himself.

Methos was touching himself. MacLeod glanced to him. Normally he would have gladly taken Methos in his mouth, but he couldn't look away. He took over the manipulations, and Methos threw his body back, thigh muscles tense. He was going to shoot any second. MacLeod tried to move down so he could take it in his mouth and watch, but Jonathan was too close. The boy had barely thrust inside Pierre when he was coming.

Pierre pulled Jonathan down to the kiss, keeping the boy to his body as he shuddered. The boy tried to pull away, but Pierre wrapped his legs around the boy. MacLeod lapped up Methos' spilt come off his thighs and cock. The two on the coffee table didn't move for a couple minutes.

Jonathan pulled away, lifting himself onto his elbows, and slowly began to thrust again. Pierre threw his arms back, giving himself to the boy. Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating on just the movements, and Pierre started to pant. He reached for his own cock, but Jonathan batted his hand away. One hand held the boy up, and the second matched his thrusts into Pierre's body on Pierre's cock. MacLeod wasn't even close to recovered, and Methos looked like he was asleep, but again, this wasn't for the audience. This was for the two of them.

Jonathan came for a second time, bringing Pierre off with a slight sigh. They moved off the coffee table and curled up in front of the fireplace, a mess of arms and legs. Mac closed his eyes and let himself sleep.

 

 

MacLeod sat down on the edge of the barge. The night's air had cooled down some, but it was still hot and sticky. He felt someone stir below and expected Methos to be the one up. Pierre came up. MacLeod nodded to him, and Pierre moved up beside him. He sat down beside MacLeod. "Do you still think I force myself?" Pierre asked.

"I never said you did."

"No, you never said, but you never had to. I've seen the way you look at me. You think I am pressing my advantage."

"I thought you were."

"I wasn't."

"I see that now."

The waves lapped at the sides of the barge. "He's a special...person, MacLeod. You should have seen him when Methos brought him to me. He has come so far."

"Where did he come from?"

"I'd rather not say."

"You're as bad as he is."

"It's not purposeful."

"Prove it."

"Prove what?"

"What happened between you and Methos?"

Pierre rubbed his face. "What did he tell you?"

"The bare minimum."

Pierre nodded. "He owned me," he said, watching MacLeod's face. "My...I had been owned by a very bad man. I killed him. I wasn't immortal then...they were going to tear me apart. Methos stabbed me. I died. He took me in. Taught me."

"Slept with you."

"On occasion," Pierre smiled at him. "Jealous?"

They both silenced as they felt another immortal moving up. It was a cliché, but Pierre's face lit up as the boy opened the door. Pierre held out his arms as the sleepy boy snuggled up next to him. Pierre leaned forward, whispering something again, and the boy nodded, but bowed his head. Pierre kissed his exposed neck.

They didn't speak until the boy had nodded off again. Pierre hugged him tightly, but looked up to MacLeod. "He's maddening. I could strangle him one second and chain him to the bed the next."

MacLeod looked at him. "Sounds like you're in love."

"I am. Which is part of the problem."

"Have you thought about...sending him away?"

"No," Pierre said, shortly.

"What about school?"

"Plenty of good schools in Paris."

The body in his arms tensed, and Pierre dropped from the conversation to whisper something else. In his sleep the boy smiled and relaxed. "Sending him away to learn from another is not...it is what we do," MacLeod said. "Have you taken a student before?"

"No."

"I...had a student once."

Pierre's arms tightened around the boy's body and Jonathan moaned in protest in his sleep. "Had?" Pierre asked.

"He died. A..." MacLeod cleared his throat. "Two years ago. He was...young, head-strong. Blind to the world around him. I trained him, but it wasn't enough."

"Jonathan is being trained. I am training him."

MacLeod stood up, "Let's hope it's enough."

"It will be," Pierre said, grimly.

MacLeod put his hand on Pierre's shoulder and went inside.

Jonathan didn't stir for the longest time. Pierre nudged him around daybreak to see the sunrise. Jonathan stretched against him, and Pierre buried his nose into Jonathan's nape as bones cracked against him. "Watch," he whispered. Jonathan settled back against him, and they watched the sunrise.

Pierre sighed when it was over and the sky had turned back to a boring blue. Jonathan stood up, body bursting with energy. It didn't seem to matter to him that he had spent the night curled up on the deck of a barge. Pierre stood up and stretched as Jonathan was already bounding down the stairs.

Mac was up making orange juice. Pierre glanced over to Jonathan who was taking the offered glass, but Methos was still a lump in the bed. Pierre kicked off his shoes, climbed into raised bed (raised bed...Mac had better be damn good in bed to warrant that) and slipped under the covers. The covers smelled like MacLeod, but there was a hint of Methos in them now. Methos reluctantly gave up one of his pillows. They slept back to back.

 

 

MacLeod glanced at the two of them. Jonathan followed his glance once, and MacLeod tried to act like it didn't bother him either, too much. "Run?" he asked.

Jonathan perked up. "Sure..." he looked around. "You got some clothes I could wear?"

MacLeod walked over to his dresser. He tossed the boy a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. They were loose, but fit his compact frame better than they fit Methos. Jonathan caught them and started to strip down where he stood. MacLeod averted his eyes, until he realized what he was doing. Jonathan realized he was being watched half way through and flushed. "Should I be changing in the other room?" he asked.

"No," MacLeod said.

"Last night wasn't...a problem, was it? I mean, if it was...uh..."

"No problem. I enjoyed it."

Jonathan blushed. "It was great," he said, and then glanced to where Pierre was asleep next to Methos.

MacLeod waited, but Jonathan didn't seem to notice. He finally coughed.

"The run?" he reminded the boy.

Jonathan grinned at him. It was such a goofy smile that MacLeod had to smile back.

Jonathan followed him up. The boy jumped over the side and slid into the passenger side. "I've always wanted to do that," he said.

MacLeod shook his head and opened his door.

Jonathan loped at his side easily. Even when MacLeod pushed it, the boy didn't have any problems keeping up. Or talking, apparently. Thoughts streamed out of him like water, and he didn't need MacLeod to even try to answer his thought process.

MacLeod watched him out of the corner of his eye. They finished the three miles without it denting the boy's energy level. "Fancy a spar?" MacLeod asked, with a practiced calm.

"Be gentle with me?" Jonathan asked. He glanced to MacLeod and smiled again.

MacLeod cuffed him. Jonathan clutched his arm and mock cried out in pain. "Bet you kick puppies too, don't you."

"Only when they beg me too."

"I liked you better when you thought I was made of glass."

MacLeod turned into the warehouse he had rented. "You shattered that illusion last night."

 

 

The boy went through his warm-up grimly without really knowing why he did what he was doing. But after the first couple of swings, MacLeod knew the boy had an advantage over most beginners. Jonathan held no fear about getting hurt, or hurting the other person. It was straightforward enough to be chilling with Jonathan's lack of emotions. The boy was bright and learned very quickly. MacLeod disarmed him twice with the same move before showing Jonathan the counter, and the move never worked again.

Jonathan complained of a shoulder ache an hour later, and the boy went into the back room to wash off some of the grime that had accumulated from the floor as MacLeod finished the practice with a set of Katas. He didn't realize the boy had been watching him until almost the very end. "Teach me?" Jonathan asked, stepping forward.

 

 

Pierre woke up with his arms around Methos, but stood up and had a shower rather than do anything about it. By the time he got out again, Methos was already making coffee. Pierre took an offered mug and leaned up against the table. They didn't talk about the previous night, but then there was nothing to say about it. MacLeod had left them a paper and they read it side by side in companionable silence.

Pierre left and took a cab back to the restaurant to pick up his car. He had to call a couple of clients, and went down to the office he hardly ever used to do so. When he returned from making the calls, Jonathan was making dinner as he stepped inside.

He moved up behind Jonathan. "Hi, honey, I'm home," he whispered, and effectively stripped the boy of his jeans. Jonathan turned around and leaned against the counter. His eyes shone.

"Did you have a nice day at the office?" Jonathan asked, and then hissed as Pierre dropped to his knees. Jonathan spread his legs wider as he thrust himself into Pierre's mouth. The boy's testicles slapped against his chin, and Pierre barely moistened a finger before working its way inside the boy.

He wasn't trying for stylistic points. Jonathan clenched against him, but shuddered as Pierre found his prostate and played with it mercilessly. The boy groaned and leaned back further and offered himself. His stomach muscles started to tighten, and Jonathan was helplessly coming inside of his mouth. Pierre swallowed it and licked the boy clean before he stood up.

Jonathan stayed against the counter for a long minute, eyes closed and body shuddering. It was beautiful. When he looked up to Pierre, he smiled, shyly. "Thank you," he said. He reached down for his jeans and fumbled around for a minute before pulling them up over his hips.

Pierre took his face and kissed it. "Mine," he said.

"Yours," Jonathan agreed. He checked the fish again.

Pierre went back to change into clean clothing and then set the table.

Domestic bliss, he could almost get used to it.

 

A month after the night at the barge, MacLeod dropped by to pick Jonathan up. He glanced to the boy out of concern as he opened the car door and sat down. "Something wrong?" he asked.

"No," Jonathan said, but his voice was short. He worked his shoulder like he expected it to hurt, but of course it didn't.

"Jonathan?"

It didn't take much more prompting. Jonathan glanced at him, obviously debating how much MacLeod wanted to hear, so Mac guessed again. "Pierre?" he asked.

The boy nodded. "You know that expression, killing them with kindness?" It was MacLeod's turn to nod. "It's never been Pierre's problem. He went at it five hours last night. Five!"

MacLeod was starting to think about informing the boy that was too much information when Jonathan continued. "It was obvious I didn't understand what he wanted...I've never used a rapier before, and it takes some time to get used to! What the hell good's a rapier anyway? You can't-- "

And Jonathan went on. MacLeod nodded and took the boy back to the barge after the run.

Methos was in another boneless sprawl, that seemed to draw the eye to his groin but still had him being perfectly innocent all at the same time. MacLeod joined him in the living area and sat down beside him.

"Yes?" Methos asked.

"I didn't ask you anything."

"But you wanted to."

"Am I that obvious?"

Methos smiled and moved his hand up onto MacLeod's thigh. "No, I just know you really well."

MacLeod leaned back, feeling the pleasure build-up under Methos' ministrations. The man only had to stroke him once and he was hard. He groaned.

"Well?" Methos prompted.

MacLeod lost the words he had wanted to use. Methos leaned into his space. "Still thinking about it?"

MacLeod nodded and sighed.

Methos offered him his wrists, and MacLeod took them, but the same...insane need he felt the night with Jonathan wasn't there. Methos cocked his head, looked at him, and then nodded. MacLeod moved away. "What?" he demanded.

"Feels wrong, does it?" Methos asked. He didn't come any closer.

"I need to--" MacLeod said, but the words tripped in his head. "Teach me," he finally said.

Methos nodded. "Perhaps if we start with what you are comfortable with?" he asked.

MacLeod nodded, almost too vigorously.

"Wouldn't you feel more comfortable on the floor?" Methos asked. "Perhaps...kneeling?"

MacLeod could do that. It would be like meditation. He slid off the couch. Kneeling in front of Methos caused his gut to tighten, but Methos smiled at him. "Very good, just like that, MacLeod...Duncan, may I call you that?"

MacLeod nodded. "Very good, Duncan. Now...perhaps you would like to take off your shirt?"

He unbuttoned it without his fingers shaking too much. The barge wasn't that much colder without his shirt on, but he felt more exposed. "Very good," Methos said. MacLeod opened and closed his fists as a distraction, and Methos' eyes were drawn to the action. "What do you suppose you should do next?" he asked.

"If I...held out my hands," MacLeod said. His heart thudded high in his throat as he tried to swallow. His legs were suddenly weak, and it had nothing to do with the kneeling position. He flushed as Methos touched his cheek.

"Like how?" Methos asked.

MacLeod held them out before him. Methos stroked his forearms and stopped for a heartbeat over his wrist-bones. "So strong," he murmured. Methos fingers moved to the individual metacarpals and moved down the bones. "Duncan?" he asked.

MacLeod looked up at him. Just the act of looking up made his stomach weak again. It was so vulnerable, and he hated vulnerability, but this was different. Warm. His cock in his jeans moved, and MacLeod shifted uncomfortably. He ground his heels into his ass, and the friction of the material moving against his groin made him flush deeper.

"Yes?" he asked. Methos smiled at him and took his wrists. Methos moved over them, kissing them both. "I'd like for you to put these behind your head. Could you do that for me?"

MacLeod nodded again, but Methos didn't let go of his wrists. "Answer me," he said.

"Yes," MacLeod said.

"Very good, Duncan. Put them behind your head."

Methos let him go, and he obeyed. Methos ran his hands down MacLeod's face teasingly. When MacLeod tried to turn into the touch, Methos pulled away. "It goes without saying, but I think I should say it. I'd rather you didn't move your hands. Do you think you could keep them there?"

MacLeod nodded, but caught himself. "Yes."

"I knew you could," Methos smiled again in reward. He joined MacLeod on the floor, but moved his hands over MacLeod's biceps. Mac shuddered, suddenly feeling...handled. But Methos never stopped smiling at him, and the sighs escaping his lover were appreciative. Methos moved his hands over every major muscle group before letting them fall down to his lower abdomen.

Up until that point, MacLeod had been calm. His cock throbbed in his jeans, but it was a gentle throbbing, almost just a reminder. MacLeod was able to breathe through it. The moment Methos' hands touched his belly, though, the need flared up and he groaned. Every nerve ending in his body snapped, the sudden hunger was that strong.

Methos only went to unbuckle his jeans and MacLeod pushed away and stood up. His mouth was dry and his heart pounding, but suddenly he couldn't sit still for it. He couldn't...participate in it.

Methos threw himself back into the chair. MacLeod opened the fridge and poured himself a glass of water. Methos stood up and went to him. "I...couldn't."

Methos took the glass from him. "MacLeod?"

Mac shook his head.

Methos touched his face. "Duncan?" he asked.

MacLeod looked up at him, "Yes?" The tightness in his belly returned and his mouth went dry.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes," MacLeod said. His voice broke but he didn't repeat himself.

Methos nodded. "Stay here, Duncan."

MacLeod didn't move until Methos returned with the silk obi from his closet. Methos let it trail on his bare skin. The chill to the cloth made him shiver. "How strong are you, Duncan?"

He froze. "What do you mean?"

"Are you strong enough not to break free?" Methos purred. MacLeod tensed, shaking his head. "Break free and this ends, MacLeod. But I don't think you want to. Do you want to, Duncan?"

MacLeod shook his head. Methos kissed him again and sucked on his lower lip. "Front or back?"

"I don't understand."

"Hands in front of you or behind you? I'm giving you this choice. Which would you prefer?"

In front of him would provide him with some degree of protection, but his knot in his stomach didn't tense at the thought.

"Behind me," he whispered.

Methos moved behind him, kissing both of his shoulders. The scrape of

Methos unshaven upper lip in contrast to silk made his cock wake up again. Methos looped his arm around his arm and ran it across his skin. "Duncan, your hands?" he reminded, gently.

Mac exhaled softly. He could just walk away. Methos wouldn't judge him. He'd walk away and it would never be mentioned again.

He put his hands behind his back. Methos wrapped the silken cord around his wrists. MacLeod shifted his hands, but just to test the bond. Methos was right, it wouldn't hold him if he didn't want it too, but it had the illusion of restraint. MacLeod closed his eyes and relaxed into it.

"That's right," Methos whispered. "You're doing fine. I am going to undo your jeans now, Duncan. Do you want me to pull them all the way off or just down?"

MacLeod didn't open his eyes. "Just down."

There was a moment's pause and then a light chuckle. Methos undid his jeans, and Mac tensed as the man rubbed his head into MacLeod's upper thigh. Methos' short hair was more like a pelt than hair, and the silkiness so close to his cock was almost cruel.

"Methos...please," MacLeod growled. He twisted his wrists, but with his jeans down to his knees and his hands behind his back, he couldn't do anything about the pleasure getting an edge of pain to it.

Methos knew it too. With his eyes closed, MacLeod couldn't be sure of the passage of time, but it seemed like an eternity before Methos actually touched his cock. Mac had to lean against the cold counter as his legs failed him.

Methos placed his hands on Mac's hips as he took Mac into his mouth. Methos' tongue was magical. Everything, the restraint, the surrender, the build up...MacLeod's heart was thudding loud enough to be heard off the barge. "Methos--" he managed, but then his throat froze and he couldn't make another sound.

Methos' hand dug into his hips hard enough to form bruises. The hands held him against the counter, and he had to lock his arms not to just tear the thin material holding him obedient. Methos switched from holding him back to holding him up as his body melted from under him.

Methos rode it through with him and remained on his knees with the cock in his mouth until Mac could stand on his own. Methos didn't rush him, but it seemed to take longer for his knees and elbows to stop aching. When he did pull away, the night air was cold on his dampened skin.

Methos untied him, and Mac pulled up on his jeans awkwardly. A simple thank you didn't seem sufficient. Methos kissed him with slightly swollen lips. "The bed?"

MacLeod nodded, and Methos helped him pull off his jeans, and he stepped out of them. Methos stripped off the way to the bed.

 

 

"Fuck me?" Jonathan asked as he bounced on the bed.

Pierre held his book down, and pulled out the papers the boy knelt on. "Not tonight, I'm too tired," he said.

The disappointment on Jonathan's face was heartbreaking. "Oh," he said. He went to climb of the bed, but Pierre reached out and caught his wrist.

"Where are you going?" Pierre asked.

"You said you were weren't in the mood."

"No, I said I was too tired to fuck you."

Jonathan's face light up again. "Cool," was all he said.

Pierre dragged him closer. Jonathan sucked on his lower lip, and for a moment, he was almost awkward as he tried to find the most comfortable position over him. He pushed Jonathan back, humping his thigh. "Slow down, you're going to finish way too quickly," Pierre said. "You're like a rabbit."

Jonathan grinned, baring his teeth. "Turn over, and I'll show my other tricks," he growled as he bit his way down Pierre's throat.

Pierre sighed and made of show of climbing sufferingly up to his hands and knees. Jonathan prepared him, quickly but carefully. There was no real pain, but the boy's urgency made him smile. The smile turned into a grimace, and he collapsed down to his elbows as Jonathan entered him for the first time.

The boy was like a rabbit in that, too. It was like being fucked by a jackhammer. Pierre groaned again, but thrust himself back to meet some of the thrusts. Jonathan shifted and ran his tongue over Pierre's shoulders.

"Pierre?" Jonathan panted.

"Yes?" Pierre asked. The boy's exuberance was infectious. Pierre shifted up against the bed. Jonathan's hand moved down to his cock, matching his thrusts.

"You feel really great, you know? I love the way you do this."

Pierre laughed. "You ain't so bad yourself," he said, in English. Jonathan stiffled a giggle against his back, and then Pierre felt the boy tremble.

"Oh, shit," the boy whispered and gripped onto Pierre more tightly. The boy shuddered, once, and collapsed against him for a moment before pulling away.

Pierre rolled onto his back. Jonathan kissed him, happily lapping at his teeth. "Pierre?" he asked.

It was like trying to hold back a puppy. "What?" Pierre managed.

"Should I suck you off do you want a hand job? Do you want to fuck me or just come in my hair?"

Pierre opened his mouth, but didn't answer the question.

Jonathan grinned. "You want to come in my hair, don't you?"

"I do not."

"How about on my face? Then you can lick it off."

"You are sick," Pierre said, and then groaned as Jonathan's fingers wrapped around his cock, "Um, Jonathan? Put your thumb right there." Jonathan found his sensitive spot right on the base of the vein and slowly began rubbing it. Pierre threw his head back.

"You're cheating. Look at me," Jonathan said.

Pierre looked up. Jonathan grinned at him, and slowly parted his lips. His tongue snaked out, catching the tip of his cock. His thumb continued to massage the single spot while his free hand ran down the shaft. Pierre's body stiffened. "Jonathan," he gritted out. His thighs trembled with the need.

Jonathan jerked back and grinned, licking his lips. He pushed hard on the spot, and suddenly Pierre came. The first string of cum caught him on his cheek, and the second over the bridge of his nose. "You look ridiculous," Pierre said. His head rocked back against the pillow.

Jonathan moved next to him. Pierre wiped off some of the semen and fed it to the boy. Jonathan licked his palm clean, and then kissed him. Pierre pulled him up and kissed him before cleaning off his face. "Thank you," Pierre said.

Jonathan lay still in his arms. Pierre held him for a bit, and then let him go. The boy rolled over to his side, and Pierre went back to his book. Pierre relaxed, loving the feeling of Jonathan just being close to him. They were like that for an hour, but he must have dozed off, because the sound of rhythmic slapping woke him up.

Pierre rolled over to him. "Jonathan, why didn't you wake me?" he asked.

"I can take care of myself," Jonathan blushed. "I--"

"I love you," he whispered. "Let me."

The boy was mostly done. Pierre took him in his mouth and let him come.

Jonathan shuddered, sitting up as soon as Pierre was done.

Pierre came back from meeting with his lawyers, and stopped at the archway. Jonathan had taken down two of the paintings that were up, and the blank white walls were actually more calming. Jonathan had stripped off his shirt and was hesitantly mimicking MacLeod and his Katas. Pierre sat down and cracked a beer, but Jonathan stopped suddenly. "Am I in your way?"

"No," Pierre said. "You were the view."

When Jonathan flushed from the roots of his hair, his freckles turned white. "MacLeod said I should practice to calm myself."

Pierre raised his eyebrow as he cast his eyes down the boy's body. "It appears not to be working," he said.

Jonathan's pink turned closer to red as his sweatpants couldn't hide his basic response. "That's not my fault."

"I'm not doing it," Pierre said. "At least from here."

Jonathan stepped up to him and pried his legs apart. "MacLeod says I can control this," he whispered and knelt down.

"This what?" Pierre asked, and then parted his lips. Jonathan's tongue moved slowly against him.

"This need I have to hump your leg whenever I am in the room with you." Pierre laughed, and threw his head back as Jonathan kissed his way down his neck. "I don't have a problem with that particular need you have," he said.

"MacLeod says if I want to--"

Pierre grabbed his wrists and pushed him back against the carpet. "I no longer care what MacLeod says. Spread your legs."

Jonathan obeyed. Pierre stood up over him, and the boy shivered. He looked up at Pierre and nervously swallowed. "Take off your sweats."

Jonathan pulled them off. His cock was hard against his belly, and he winced as Pierre splashed his cold beer over it. The beer most have tingled against the flesh, because Jonathan started to squirm. Pierre licked it off and played with the curly hairs while he did. "Jonathan?" he asked.

"Yes, sir?"

"Would you like to fuck me?"

"Yes, sir!"

Pierre reached under the couch, bypassed the sword, and found the tube of lube. He worked the KY over Jonathan's cock and slowly lowered himself down on it. Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and then reached up and began to work Pierre's nipples. Jonathan let himself be manipulated for a minute before he began to get restless.

Pierre moved to his hands and knees, and Jonathan followed him a moment later. For such a jaded scene player, Jonathan was a remarkably fresh and excitable straight lover. His excited gasps in Pierre's ears were endearing.

Jonathan kissed his shoulder, desperately, and Pierre guided his hand to his cock and pressed down just above his testicles. He relaxed for a moment, and then pressed down again.

They came together. He woke up in the middle of the night, alone. He sat up and saw Jonathan kneeling in front of a burning candle. His head was bowed in contemplation, and Pierre lay back down again.

"MacLeod said," Jonathan said again.

Pierre broke away from his attack and stalked off.

"What?" Jonathan demanded.

"You're a French-Polish Jew, Jonathan, what's with this Asian stuff? If I hear "MacLeod said" one more time I'll take your head myself."

"MacLeod said you're not supposed to threaten the life of your student," Jonathan said with a perfectly straight face.

Pierre cursed, loudly, and stalked off.

"Where are you going?" Jonathan called.

"I'm going to have a little chat with MacLeod," he snarled.

"Pierre?" Jonathan called, but Pierre slammed the door shut behind him.

 

 

MacLeod was at the warehouse Pierre occasionally picked Jonathan up from. MacLeod stopped his Kata and walked to his water bottle against the wall. "Jonathan's not here," he said.

"I know," Pierre said. He walked around MacLeod long enough to make the other man nervous. "Fancy a spar?"

"A spar?" MacLeod asked.

"Two men, two swords, we stop when the first man--" Pierre let his voice drop off. "You know, a spar?"

MacLeod nodded, pulling his sword from his pile of clothing. "A spar it is, then."

Pierre pulled his blade and shed his jacket. "Any particular reason we're doing this?" MacLeod asked.

"I just wanted to know what I was up against," Pierre said as they circled each other again, only this time with naked blades between them.

"Up against?"

Pierre attacked. MacLeod defended himself, deflecting the blade easily, but the blows weren't serious yet. "You're not trying to poach my student?"

"Poach?" MacLeod asked, and then launched a counter attack. Pierre turned them just as easily. They were still warming up.

"He's very...poachable, wouldn't you say, MacLeod? And he's besotted with you."

"You can't be serious," MacLeod snapped, and Pierre had to jump back to keep from being sliced open.

Pierre broke from the engagement, walking around MacLeod. MacLeod watched him cautiously. "I am serious. He's my student, hands off."

They began again, starting slowly. Pierre blocked MacLeod's wrist with his forearm, letting the blade slice open his forearm. The pain was sudden and shocking, but Pierre ignored the pain as he brought his sword under

MacLeod's guard. The tip touched MacLeod's throat.

"You could have lost your arm," MacLeod said, but didn't move from under the blade.

"I could have had your head."

"We don't fight like that."

Pierre moved the blade higher onto MacLeod's throat. "But you'd still be dead," he snarled.

"And?" MacLeod asked.

Pierre pulled back. "And you'd take Jonathan with you. Let me teach him my way."

"It doesn't work like that," MacLeod said.

"Leave Jonathan alone, MacLeod," Pierre said. He put his sword away.

"Pierre--"

Pierre waved the man away.

Jonathan looked up from his coffee. The boy's hands shook minutely, but that could have been from the excess coffee. "Pierre?"

"Yes?" Pierre asked.

"MacLeod still as tall as he was this morning?"

"Come here."

"Pierre?"

Pierre snapped his fingers. Jonathan's mouth dropped open, but he covered it by coughing. "Sir?" he asked.

"Do I repeat myself?"

"No..." the boy coughed again, clearing his throat. "No, sir," he said.

"I didn't think so."

The boy went to him and dropped down to his knees. Pierre bent down and lifted the boy's chin, examining him. Jonathan parted his lips, but didn't say anything. Pierre stroked the boy's cheek. "Whom do you belong to?"

"You," Jonathan whispered.

"Prove it," Pierre said. Jonathan went to reach for his belt, but Pierre caught his hands. "It's not that easy for you."

He left the boy kneeling down in the middle of the floor and fixed himself a drink. Jonathan stared at it, and Pierre drummed his fingers against the glass. "Do you want this?"

The boy nodded, licking his lips.

"Later. After. Begin."

Jonathan undid his own jeans. Pierre cleared his throat. "Take off your shirt, Jonathan. Do I have to tell you everything?"

"Forgive me," Jonathan whispered. The boy's body twisted as he pulled off his T-shirt.

"Wait," Pierre called.

Jonathan's breath caught. His jeans were undone, but still up about his hips, and his nipples were tight. "Spread your legs, Jonathan. Let me see it work against your denim."

Jonathan obeyed. He loved the way the boy's breathing changed while his hands ran up and down over his thighs. Pierre left him like that for a moment and then stood up. He tilted the boy's head back, and poured a little of the vodka down his throat. The boy coughed slightly, but swallowed it down. He tilted his head back so he could look Pierre in the eyes. Pierre stood over him, leaning forward so that his groin was in Jonathan's face. Pierre took the back of his head and ground his erection against the boy's face. Jonathan opened his mouth for it, and his hot, moist breath touched him. Pierre pulled away, although it hurt his body to do so. "Continue," he said, sitting down again.

"Sir?" Jonathan asked, confused.

"I want you to play with your nipples."

"Do you want them to hurt, sir?" Jonathan asked.

"No, don't go that far."

"Yes, sir." Jonathan reached up. He twisted them in his fingers, hard enough to make him shudder but not enough to make the hissing sound he made whenever he was in serious discomfort. His hips began to thrust slightly, and the bulge in his jeans tightened and moved up. Jonathan parted his legs a little more.

"Jonathan?"

"Yes, sir?" the boy whispered.

"Pull your jeans down, Jonathan, slowly."

The boy sat up, and peeled his jeans down to his knees. His thighs trembled again, as he went back over his heels. His cock was hard, but not quite needy enough. Jonathan put his hands behind his back and leaned back, offering his body to Pierre. Pierre kept him like that, letting the lack of stimulation be all the pain Jonathan would get. And the boy loved it. Pierre took another sip of the vodka and knelt down in front of the boy. They kissed, and Pierre transferred the alcohol over to the boy.

"Fuck me, sir," Jonathan whispered, exposing his throat completely as Pierre kissed his way down. "For god sake, please."

"Not quite yet," Pierre told him, and then bit him hard enough to pinch the skin. The boy shuddered, and then let a groan escape as Pierre pulled away and sat with his back against the couch. It was less than four steps away, but the boy looked betrayed.

"Jerk off," Pierre ordered, making his voice sound bored. "But if you come, I'll be disappointed."

Jonathan tensed as he reached down and touched his cock, hesitantly. "Make it look like you're enjoying yourself, please," Pierre said, harshly.

The boy winced, but slowly began to run his hand up over the entire length. His stomach muscles tightened as physically fought off the wave of pleasure, and his face screwed up in concentration as his hand went down again. He pulled on his testicles, hoping that would keep him from coming.

"Again," Pierre ordered.

The boy did it again. He bit his lip, hard enough to make him wince, but he managed it again. The boy looked at Pierre proudly.

Pierre's own cock was hard against his thigh. He pulled down his sweats, idly running his fingers over the head. "Hands and knees," he ordered.

Jonathan dropped down immediately and bowed his head so the vulnerable nape of his neck showed through the curls. "Crawl to me."

As the boy moved, his beautifully muscled shoulders shifted under his skin. Pierre couldn't look away from the line of his back. The boy stopped, straddling Pierre's leg, with his mouth inches away from Pierre's cock.

"You may," Pierre whispered.

Jonathan swallowed him. The boy gave himself over to giving pleasure, and Pierre moved his leg up to give the boy something to hump. Pierre grabbed the back of his head, forcing himself down the back of his throat. Jonathan took the guidance, working the new thrusts. The boy's thrusts became more desperate as he tongue worked around his length. Pierre's entire body tightened, and the orgasm started in the base of his skull. He pulled the boy against him and came, letting the boy come against his calf.

Jonathan collapsed against him, and his hot breath was sticky against his pelvic bone. "Mine," he whispered.

Jonathan didn't answer that.

Pierre fell asleep right away, but Jonathan couldn't relax enough. He felt wide awake, but confused. Playing the game was comfortable, almost too comfortable. He could have lost himself into the role. But that was all it was any more, it was just a game.

Jonathan got out of bed and dressed. Pierre was still asleep, and Jonathan smiled as he kissed the man's forehead. Pierre reached for him, but Jonathan pulled away.

Walking didn't help. He still felt knotted up inside. He owed Pierre so much, that even if he wasn't twisted inside with love, he still felt partway owned. He walked until sunrise, and then had breakfast at a small café. By the time he finished, it was time for his run. MacLeod was surprised to see him at the barge. "What?" Jonathan asked as MacLeod's thinly vieled stare continued. "I'm just surprised to see you here."

Jonathan flushed. "Are we going to run, or not?"

"Run," MacLeod said.

Mac dropped him off at Pierre's apartment, and Jonathan froze. That was it. It was Pierre's apartment, in Pierre's building. Pierre's bed, Pierre's furniture, Pierre's things. Suddenly he felt sick. He unlocked the security door, and took the stairs up. But, the room was quiet and dark, and Pierre wasn't in there.

Jonathan unlocked the door, but the room was cool. Pierre hadn't turned down the air conditioner before he left, and the entire apartment was too cold now that the sun was down. No note, no message.

Jonathan glanced around the apartment he had been living in for the last six months, but there was no sign of his existence. He could have packed everything he owned into a single suitcase and be out in five minutes, if he had to. And even with his belongings, nothing actually belonged to him. Adam had given him over wearing only the clothes on his back. Everything else, Pierre had bought for him.

He touched his bottom lip. He needed a life beyond being Pierre's pet. Not that being Pierre's pet wasn't pleasant, but he needed more.

He was half way through making supper when he felt the warning, but learned his lesson. He waited to hear the key turn, and when the person knocked instead, the disappointment crippled him. It was only Adam. "Where's Pierre?" he asked. "Coming," he said.

The window was open a crack, and Jonathan suddenly heard the cracking of swords against each other. He tried to run past Adam, but the man grabbed his arm and he slammed into the counter as Adam moved against him. "Get off me," he growled.

"I can't do that," Adam said. "What is it between you two? Do you think you could help him? Jonathan-"

Jonathan reached behind him and grabbed his sword. "Let me go," he repeated.

Adam was just this side of laughing at him. "You are going to fight me, pup? You wouldn't last a heartbeat. Your last heartbeat."

"Let go of me or we'll find out," Jonathan said, grimly.

Adam did laugh, and Jonathan felt ridiculous. He knew the man was better than him, but he didn't care. At least lashing out was better than sitting still. The sound of the swords was close now, like they were fighting right under the window. The sounds distracted him, and Adam punched him before he could defend himself. It knocked him down, and Adam's foot came down heavy over his shoulder. Adam picked up the fallen sword and held it to Jonathan's neck. "Stop this."

Jonathan continued to struggle. "Do I just kill you and wait for Pierre to pull the sword out?" Adam asked.

"I have to be with him," Jonathan protested.

"You'd only distract him. Relax."

Jonathan stopped struggling. "Okay, I am going to let go of your left arm Move, Jonathan, and I'll slam you down again. Agreed?"

Jonathan nodded, and Adam backed away. "Okay, your other arm. Move and we'll go right back to square one."

"Just get off me," Jonathan said, voice flat. The swords continued outside the window, but he lay still while Adam got off his upper body.

"Now, I'm going to get up. If you move, we start over. Okay?"

Jonathan nodded again. Adam stood up, and Jonathan remained on the floor. "Good. He stepped around the boy and offered his hand up. Jonathan took it, while reaching for his small knife. Adam went to smile at him, but Jonathan gripped onto the man's wrist and stabbed him as he was moving up.

"I'm sorry," Jonathan said, and twisted the blade. Adam fell to the side, dead, and Jonathan pulled the knife out and ran.

His presence didn't stop the fight. Pierre glanced to him, and his shirt was red from the number of cuts he had. The other guy was only marginally better. "Is that your meat?" the guy Pierre fought asked. "Sweet. Nice little snack for later," the man growled.

It wasn't that threat that turned his stomach to water and made his knees inoperable. The thought of being without Pierre stopped him cold. He couldn't...he wouldn't survive it. Pierre was a part of him. Pierre took another hit across his arm, and Jonathan cried out like he was the one that was hit. Adam came up behind him and grabbed his neck. "Don't," Adam said. "He's going to die," Jonathan screamed. Adam clamped his hand over Jonathan's mouth. "Shut up, you'll only distract him."

Jonathan elbowed Adam on the same place as the stabbing, but it wasn't any less tender than any other place. He stopped struggling and watched. Pierre jumped back, but didn't completely avoid the last thrust. It cut him, hard, but Pierre lashed out and disemboweled the man. The beheading was quick, and Pierre fell to his knees as the flash hit him.

Adam reached him, but grabbed his arm as the last of the quickening hit Pierre. "Let's get him inside."

Jonathan dropped down beside Pierre, and gingerly helped Adam pick him up. The blood had stopped flowing and his body healed itself as they brought him back up to the apartment.

"He did what?" Pierre demanded.

"The little bastard killed me."

"You let him?"

"He didn't exactly ask my permission."

Pierre looked at his former slave, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Jonathan?" he asked, gently.

"I had to," Jonathan said. "You were going to die."

"Adam?" Pierre asked. "Would you leave us alone?"

Adam nodded. The door closed behind him. "What was that supposed to prove?" Pierre asked.

"He wouldn't let me go to you."

"I asked him not to let you," Pierre stood up and stripped off his shirt. The wounds were healed, and Jonathan ran his finger through the drying blood.

"You were going to die. I couldn't let you--"

Pierre caught his wrist but Jonathan pulled away, but Pierre took it back and held it too tight for him to slip away. "Listen to me, Jonathan. This is what we are."

"I can't let you die! Why can't you understand that?"

Pierre sighed, and suddenly saw it. "Jonathan, we're immortal, we aren't gods. We have to fight. And sometimes we have to die. It's not because I don't love you enough."

Jonathan didn't look at him. Pierre pulled him down to the bed, but the boy's body was rigid and hard. Pierre kissed the top of his head and wrapped his arms around him. "Don't tell me this," Jonathan finally said. "What am I supposed to say?"

"You love me."

"I love you."

Jonathan start to move against him. Pierre pulled off his bloody shirt, and they both stopped as Methos cleared his throat from the door. "I'll be going now," he said.

Pierre managed to wave. Jonathan didn't stop moving against him. Pierre grabbed the boy's wrists and held them over his head, and Jonathan smiled. Pierre reared up and knocked him off, but Jonathan scrambled to his hands and knees. Pierre pinned him to the bed, and yanked down his jeans with one hand. Jonathan shivered, and Pierre lubed the boy up.

They coupled. It wasn't as frantic as fucking yet it lacked the romance of making love. Pierre bit down on Jonathan's shoulder hard enough to draw blood for possession, and Jonathan took it. Jonathan demanded more from Pierre, and Pierre almost killed himself trying to provide for Jonathan's wants. Finally they broke apart.

Pierre cursed, reaching down to hold himself. I'm going to develop sores before they heal," he complained.

Jonathan curled up next to him. "Tired?" he asked.

"Exhausted."

"You couldn't lift a finger if you had to?"

"Forget that."

"Good," Jonathan said. He snuggled in closer and took a deep breath. "I want to go to school.

End


End file.
